


you see I am a great hand at building castles in the air

by fulminating_gold



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Francis POV, Francis being horny at the dinner table, Gay, Gay Sex, Hair-pulling, Hidden fluff if you squint, James is a brat and I will not apologize for it, M/M, Neck Kissing, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Kissing, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulminating_gold/pseuds/fulminating_gold
Summary: "We are captain and commander, James," Francis thought, taking another long sip of wine. "There is a gulf of inequality between us. The one commands respect, the other – silence."Francis passes the time during an officers' dinner.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	you see I am a great hand at building castles in the air

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is my letter of introduction to the Terror fandom, enjoy some gratuitous smut. 
> 
> \-------
> 
> Title is actually an excerpt from one of JFJ's letters -- historical Jeames is quaking.

“Of course I accepted it, though I’ll admit I was somewhat loathe to. It was such a gaudy, frivolous thing, all embossment and ornamentation. Positively painful on the eyes. We banged it up quite a bit when we toasted with it that evening, and I daresay it looked the better for it.”

A polite ripple of laughter across the table, and Francis clenched his jaw to avoid blurting out something rude. It was not the first dinner in Fitzjames’ presence he’d been obliged to tolerate, nor would it be the last, yet he couldn’t help feeling that the commander’s blustering grated on the nerves especially harshly this evening. Spearing a piece of meat, he did his utmost to focus on his dinner. The prongs of his fork scraped on the china plate.

“But surely you must have acknowledged the bravery of it.” That was Little’s voice, not Fitzjames’ – a brief respite, if ever there was one. “To jump in fully clothed like that – having not even removed your greatcoat – such a feat is worthy of a little frivolity.”

“If foolhardiness can be conflated for bravery, I suspect you’re right,” Fitzjames laughed. “But although I have been known to indulge quite often in the former, I do not credit myself with any extraordinary allocation of the latter.” 

“Tolerating this conversation is an act of bravery in itself,” Francis muttered, low enough to not be heard by Little or Sir John on either side of him. He chewed slowly, lifting his gaze to glare at Fitzjames across the table. How was it that a man so intelligent, so competent in matters navigational and scientific, could be so laughably ignorant of the opinions others held of him? Was he aware, and simply did not care, or did he genuinely not know when to shut up?

Fitzjames tossed back his perfectly coiffed hair, his lips pulling into a lopsided grin. He replied to something LeVesconte said beside him, and the smile burst into a laugh, the kind that reached his eyes, sparkling above the rim of his wineglass. Francis raised his own to his lips, taking a long pull.

_I could show you when to shut that mouth of yours._ The thought was startling in its clarity, but Francis was not surprised by it – this was not the first time it had arisen; nor the first time he had indulged it. He had passed many of these dinners deep in such thoughts, imagining the myriad ways he might teach James Fitzjames to be quiet. 

A good deck in the face would do it, though the resulting wound to Fitzjames’ pride would likely only prompt a further deluge of affronted dialogue. A scathing comment, perhaps – but Francis had not James’ silver tongue, and could not hope to compete with it. Forcing him to hold that tongue, then, would be the ideal solution, but Francis highly doubted that that was something Fitzjames would submit to willingly.

Or perhaps he would. Francis shifted in his seat, angling himself to more discreetly watch James’ movements. James gesticulated as he talked, his long fingers sweeping casual gestures in the air before him. There seemed to be a beckoning in those gestures – a challenge. Francis imagined snatching James’ hands out of the air, putting pressure on his graceful, feminine wrists until he buckled.

_“Francis –”_ That pompous, over-familiar pronunciation of Francis’ name, the softening lent to it by James’ Mayfair lisp. He would quiet that. 

_“Try to shake the brown study.”_ He would quiet that, too; the condescending way James spoke to him, as if they were anything near equals.

_We are captain and commander, James,_ Francis thought, taking another long sip of wine. _There is a gulf of inequality between us. The one commands respect, the other – silence._

Francis closed his eyes, and the dinner slipped away, falling into obscurity like sand crumbling beneath his fingers. When he opened his eyes, the dinner was over, and he was in the wardroom, James’ shirt clenched in his fist. They were careening to the side, listing as if the ship were caught in a gale. Francis felt James’ gravity pulling him inwards, and they went crashing down together. 

James hit the wall with force, knocking a short breath from his chest. “Francis –”

That voice again; that lisp. “Don’t –” Francis braced his forearm across James’ broad chest, pressing hard against his sternum. “—call me Francis.” 

James opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He frowned, a puzzled and affronted expression that only made Francis smile. Francis shifted his position, placing himself so that most of his body weight fell on James. He could feel the commander’s heart flailing against his ribs, rapping out an erratic rhythm beneath his layers of clothing. He was still – frozen like a prey animal caught between the jaws of its predator, desperately trying to calculate its chances of survival. Francis liked him like this; prone and trapped, any control he might have wielded over the situation wrested from his grip. Angling his face so that he looked down his nose at James, Francis bared his teeth in a grin.

“Not so confident now, are we?” he hissed, sliding one of his legs between James’. James loosed a short gasp, sharp and clipped. Francis braced his free hand against the wall, hemming him in.

“Where are your stories now, James?” he said. “Or have you finally learned to hold your tongue?”

Something flashed in James’ eyes, a spark of recognition that melted the confusion from his face, revealing something new underneath. At first Francis couldn’t place it, but then he angled his leg inwards and came into contact with the apex of James’ thighs. James’ lips twitched, the ghost of a smile, and he shifted his hips, lifting them to bring the hardness pressing at his trousers flush against Francis’ thigh.

“You’ll have to make me,” he said.

Francis relaxed his grip fractionally. “I beg your pardon?”

James’ tongue darted across his lips, and he breathed a laugh. “If you’d like me to hold my tongue, you shall have to make me.” Tossing back his glossy curls, he lifted his chin, defiant. “I see through you now, Francis; I see it plainly. Oh, how tortuous those dinners must have been, with me prattling along the whole time. Tell me, just how badly have you wanted this – how many times have you envisioned silencing me so?”

Francis’ lip curled, and he reinstated the pressure on James’ sternum. James coughed out another breath, but the laughter chased it once more, and he continued to smile – that infernal, smug little smile.

“I’m not very good at silence, Francis,” he cooed. “I could talk all night; might do, in fact, unless something is done about it.”

“You little –” Francis thought of throwing James off with contempt, but something stopped him. It was a heaviness, the same internal gravitation that had dragged him down atop James in the first place, a siren song of glances and laughter and scented hair oil. He found that he did not want to leave this position; did not want to part with the weight and warmth of James, and from the look on James’ face, he was of the same mind.

James’ voice was thick when he next spoke.

“Francis,” he rasped. “Dear Captain Crozier, you do appear to be in a bit of a predicament, don’t you?” James moved against Francis’ body, rubbing deliciously against the hardness pressing at his trousers. “I could help with that, if you like.” His gaze flicked pointedly downwards. “Just give us a little wiggle room, maybe stop frowning so; nobody likes a grim –”

Francis did not let him finish the sentence. He descended on James madly, swallowing his words in what was less of a kiss and more of a claim. It was neither slow nor tender, but conquering; an engagement of teeth and tongue in which Francis was determined to be dominant. The hand which had been braced against the wall found its way into James’ hair, and the fingers curled into a fist, pulling James’ head back. A small sound escaped the commander, but nothing more – Francis would not allow it. He only surfaced when he himself needed to come up for air, and even then, the respite was momentary.

“I say.” James grinned, looking up at Francis. He swallowed, his throat bobbing, and let out another breathy laugh. “I would not have expected such ferocity – didn’t know you had it in you.”

Francis tightened his grip on James’ hair. “Be quiet, will you?”

James lifted his brows. “Why, afraid someone will hear us?”

Francis ground his teeth. Abruptly he released James, only to rebound on him with double effort. Hands flew to push off the heavy uniform jacket, epaulettes and all falling unceremoniously to the ground. His body thrummed with need, the pressurized restraint of weeks breaking all in a single moment. James allowed himself to be divested of his waistcoat and neckcloth, helping Francis off with his jacket as well, but Francis stopped him before he could do anything more.

“Turn round,” he grunted, spinning James by the shoulders. James complied, gasping as he was shoved back against the wall. Francis pressed against him, running his hands down his arms and sides, fondling his backside, mapping the uncharted regions of his body – _terra incognita_ for Francis, but oh, he was an intrepid explorer. He was fully hard now, his cock throbbing with want as he groped James, but he would not let it be over so soon. This was a fantasy he had enacted a dozen times in his head, and always it had ended too quickly, without the satisfaction of a drawn-out engagement. He didn’t just want the tension in him to be released, he wanted to earn it.

James, however, was impatient. “Must I aggravate you to provoke action?” he breathed, grinding his arse back against Francis’ cock. “I expected more from you, Francis.”

Francis took James’ hair in his fist once more, giving it a sharp tug. A sound midway between a yelp and a moan tore itself from James’ throat, and Francis felt the effects of it race directly to his cock. He pressed up against James, one hand on his waist as he breathed into the shell of his ear:

“I thought I told you to be quiet.”

Tugging James’ shirt out of his trousers, he slid his hand up beneath it, skin on skin at last. He explored the planes of James’ torso, thoroughly enjoying the noises he elicited as he accompanied the movements with territorial kisses along his neck, some punctuated with scrapes of his teeth.

“You,” he said, gently biting down on the sensitive flesh between James’ neck and shoulder, “never learned when to shut up.” His hand slid abruptly down, dipping beneath the waistband of James’ trousers to grip his cock. Francis returned his lips to James’ ear. “I will show you how.”

He gave James a gentle tug. James’ body shuddered and momentarily failed him, his knees buckling, but he braced his hands against the wall and held himself up, choking for breath in a sudden loss of bravado.

“Christ,” he gasped, his head falling forward. “How forward.”

“James,” Francis crooned, pulling him back by the hair. “Quiet.”

James made a noise as if intending to speak, but the words died as Francis pulled him off, the strokes a far cry from gentle. His own cock strained in his trousers, the need almost painful, but he refrained from indulging himself for a moment longer, listening to the ragged hitching of James’ breaths. He stopped when he thought James must be getting close to spending; he would not grant him that pleasure, not just yet. Releasing James’ cock, he stepped back, allowing unforgiving cold air to momentarily fill the space between them.

“Trousers,” he grunted, panting as he undid the front of his own trousers and palmed himself at last.

James obliged him, baring himself against the wall in a wanton display. “Francis,” he breathed. “If you’re going to fuck me, I suggest you hop to it. We don’t have –” 

“Shh.” Francis stroked himself, planting a comparatively gentle kiss on James’ shoulder. It occurred to him that they had no oil, but it was of little consequence. There were other methods of preparation.

“Be a good boy now,” he said, releasing James’ hair. James glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly to ask why, but was silenced as Francis suddenly spat into his hand and inserted a wet finger into him, the action so fluid and swift as to be completely unexpected.

“Oh –” James tensed, and Francis paused, glancing up.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Ah – yes,” James said, his eyelids fluttering closed. “Quite alright. Do – do continue.”

Francis grinned. He hooked his finger, working into James in slow, gentle movements – this sort of thing couldn’t be rushed. As James relaxed, he added a second finger, broadening the opening. James swore above him, a string of breathy obscenities accompanied by moans that reminded Francis of the molly house boys he used to visit on the docks.

“You take it like a professional, Commander,” he said, sliding out the two fingers. James grunted in response, a nonverbal acknowledgement of the praise.

“I can take more than that, you know,” he said a moment later. “I wouldn’t underestimate me, were I you.” 

Francis’ cock twitched. Slowly, he rose, kissing the edge of James’ shoulder as he came back up.

“You certain?” he asked. “I don’t want to hurt you, you dandy thing.”

James scoffed. “Do your worst.”

Taking that as the go-ahead, Francis gripped James hips and pulled their bodies together. He applied a second coating of saliva to James as well as himself, and then, just as unceremoniously as he’d done with his fingers, he fitted himself against James, entering him in a smooth thrust.

The sensation was a relief unlike any Francis had ever known. He groaned, his forehead falling against James’ back as he thrust further in. James loosed a delightful string of incoherent sounds, among them a garbled version of what was supposed to be Francis’ name, and arched his back.

“God, James.” Francis gripped James’ arse, guiding himself in, then withdrawing for a second thrust. “You feel like –” He pushed back in, his eyes fluttering closed. From before him came a breath of choked laughter.

“Who’s at a loss for words now, hmm?”

Francis grunted, his lips pulling into an involuntary smile. He placed his hands on James’ hips and began to pick up a rhythm, burying himself in James with surprising ease.

“This isn’t the first cock you’ve taken, Commander Fitzjames,” he observed. James pushed back against Francis in response, removing one of his hands from the wall to pull himself off in time to Francis’ thrusts.

It was not a moment for talking; Francis could feel the tension pooling in his stomach, a tightly wound spring ready to break at any moment, and he let himself fall into the sensation. It was familiar, this; it was hardly his first quick, quiet fuck. But there was something foreign in it, too; a kind of care that he’d rarely exercised on the boys he’d used in the past. He found himself stroking James, his thumb tracing gentle circles over the slope of his hips while his free hand returned to James’ cock, helping him pull himself off as he fucked him. 

“Good boy,” he murmured into James’ back, feeling the erratic hitch of his breaths as he neared his climax. “Into my hand, there you are.”

James came with a shudder, and as he spent he made the most beautiful sound, both an exhalation and an exclamation. Francis smiled as he heard his name spilled out like an oath, and felt that spring inside of him reaching its breaking point. He imagined coming inside of James, marking him indelibly as his subordinate, as _his_. He pictured the next officers’ dinner, James sitting across from him and finding himself at a loss for words as their gazes met and he remembered the way Francis had claimed him so completely, how he’d swallowed his voice and taken his body.

“James –” Francis collapsed against him as he came, spilling with a blind intensity that made his legs shake. James exhaled quietly, but he did not speak. Francis felt James take his hand, squeezing his fingers in a surprisingly tender gesture – a consensus.

The moment passed in shallow breaths and the beating of hearts. Francis withdrew from James, albeit reluctantly; the desire to remain close to his warmth was still strong, even with the desire gone. James turned around, leaning his back against the wall, and regarded him with half-lidded eyes, his expression sated and sleepy.

“Was that –” he smiled “quiet enough for you? Captain?”

_“Captain?”_

Francis blinked. The dinner table swam back into view, the sparkling glass and flickering candles and across from him, the vaguely bemused face of a fully clothed James Fitzjames, studying him passively over the rim of his glass. At his right hand, Little addressed him once more.

“Captain Crozier?”

Francis turned to glance at his first lieutenant, apologizing for not having heard whatever it was he’d said. Little looked at him quizzically, but repeated his question, and Francis answered it, though ten minutes hence he could not have remembered what it was.

Across from him, James smiled and turned to speak to LeVesconte.

_Ah well,_ Francis thought, chewing his food mechanically. _At least you’ve gone quiet._


End file.
